


Secret Santner

by maythefoursbewithyou



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Crack Fic, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 03:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10936116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maythefoursbewithyou/pseuds/maythefoursbewithyou
Summary: Mitchell has one mission and he has no choice but to accept it. Christmas depends on it.





	Secret Santner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiwialicat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwialicat/gifts).



> I wrote this for the Secret Santner fic exchange in the summer but didn't want to submit it. Now it's wintry and cold and I find I've warmed to it a little.

It’s not that he’s concerned about this meeting, exactly. If there’s one thing Mitchell Santner doesn’t do, its worry. His default is a quiet, reserved curiosity, and cool logic. 

Anxiety is a waste of energy, energy better spent on important things, like playing the game. He sees it in his team-mates sometimes, compulsive fretters like Rosco and Cozza, who spend so much time worrying about what might happen that at times it comes to overshadow what _is_ happening. When they get into that mindset, they angst about playing to such an extent that it inhibits their presence of mind, and stops them from channelling the flow that’s a prerequisite for good cricket. 

But this approach isn’t in Mitchell’s repertoire, and it doesn’t make sense to him. And so, as he wonders the corridor of his Auckland hotel toward the conference room, where his captain and head coach await him (only him) he’s calm and inquisitive, keeping an open mind. A meeting of this nature might imply that he’s done something wrong, and yet, he doubts he has. As an all-rounder for the Black Caps, he’s a solid, dependable contributor to field, bat and ball. No problems there, and he keeps too low a profile off-field to be involved in any controversy. Everything’s above board, and so he admits some puzzlement as to the purpose of the meeting. All he’s been told is that he’s wanted on some matter of urgency, with an implication that something will be asked of him. Okay. Interesting.

He enters the room, and takes the empty seat that’s waiting for him. There’s no tension in the room, no awkwardness, nothing to signal he should worry.

‘Morning Sants,’ says Hess, who picks up the plunger full of coffee that’s resting on the coffee table in front of him. ‘Cup of fortitude for the day?’

‘Please,’ he says. ‘Black.’

Kane’s between them, legs akimbo, taking momentary sips from his mug. 

As Hess pours into the white hotel crockery, he says, ‘You’re probably wondering why we’ve called this meeting.’

Mitchell shrugs. ‘Yep.’

‘Game for a challenge?’

‘Always.’

‘It’s a rather unusual one, mind.’ Hess passes Mitchell the now-full cup and saucer. ‘Kane and I have been tasked with the job of selecting a new Santa.’

This is all? Good grief. ‘No,’ he replies, flatly, and puts the coffee back on the table, then he stands up and turns to the door. 

‘Hold up, Mitch. Don’t run away yet,’ Kane pulls rank. ‘We’d like you to hear us out first.’

‘If you say so, but if I were you, I wouldn’t waste my breath. I’m not going to change my mind.’

‘Thing is,’ Hess explains, ‘We’re not exactly asking. New Zealand needs a Santa, and you’re it.’

Well. This is an interesting development. ‘Ok. It’s not in my contract, so technically you can’t make me. And New Zealand has thousands of Santa’s, so one more won’t be missed.’

‘Actually, it is in your contract.’ Hess has the document in his lap, and there’s a green post-it flag attached to one of the pages. He opens it there, and passes the papers to Mitchell. ‘As you can see, clause 8.3.4 states that any serving Black Cap agrees to be selected for Santa Claus duties should the need arise. The need has arisen. Kane, will you take it from here?’

Mitchell reads the clause (Claus?), but he doesn’t remember seeing it in his own copy of the contract. Surely his agent would have picked that up? He resolves to check it thoroughly with a lawyer when he gets home in a few days, and search for a loophole if need be.

‘Sants, you’re not going to believe what I have to tell you. I didn’t believe it when Hess sat me down and explained it to me either. But there is a Santa. Multiple Santas, worldwide, in truth. Their job is to deliver presents to victims of commercial propaganda and Christians on Christmas Eve. ’

Mitchell sniggers. Kane’s taking the piss. But Kane ignores his ironic laughter and continues with his monologue.

‘New Zealand gets one Santa. It’s a big job, obviously, and has a supernatural element to it, so traditionally, it’s been a job for a test cricketer – bowler, preferably. Who else would have the endurance to visit millions of households within a night? For the longest time, it’s been Dan Vettori, but now that he’s retired, we’ve been directed to choose a new Santa. We think you might just be tall and slinky enough to fit down a chimney. 

‘Once night falls on Christmas Eve, time will slow to a trickle, but only for you, enabling you to visit all of the households in the short number of hours between sunset and sunrise. You’ll also be imbued with invisibility and the power to pass through solid objects, so that no-one will catch you breaking into their house. But as soon as dawn breaks, these powers will recede, and you’ll just be a guy in a Santa suit again.’

Hess gestures to the coat rack by the door. ‘The suit is in the dry-cleaning bag. And make sure you’re home on the evening of the 23rd, because Dan will be dropping by to train you.’

This is the stupidest prank his superiors have ever played. Mitchell rises from his chair, wearing the blank inscrutable expression that is his signature. ‘Well, ok, if that’s everything, I’d like to get back to reality now.’ And flush all this nonsense out of his system with a healthy dose of skeptical thinking. Yes, some Richard Dawkins will do nicely right now. Empiricism for the win, etc. Obviously he doesn’t bother to pick up the dry cleaning bag on the way out. 

When he’s gone, Kane and Hess look at each other and shrug their shoulders. ‘Oh well. No-one can say we didn’t warn him,’ Hess remarks.

*

He forgets all about the Santa nonsense and goes about his life in the usual way. Right up until the night before Christmas Eve, anyway, when Dan shows up in the Knights’ changing room, late, while the boys are toasting their success against the Central Stags. ‘Dean,’ he says, ‘Can I borrow your slow left arm orthodox for a bit?’

Dean assents. ‘His work is done for the night, so he’s all yours.’

‘Excuse me. Right here,’ says Mitchell. Damn it, he was beginning to enjoy his Heineken too. He packs up his belongings into his cricket bag, and he and Dan leave Seddon Park through the members’ gate. 

‘So what’s this all about, Dan?’ Mitchell, in the passenger seat of Dan’s four wheel drive, genuinely wants to know. ‘I doubt you called on me in the interests of Christmas spirit.’

‘Actually, I did. I understand you’ve been given a very important job this year, and I’m gonna show you the ropes,’ explains Dan, his eyes on the road.

Mitchell wracks his brain. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Jeez. They told me they’d brought you up to speed. Hess and Kane? The Santa thing?’ Dan tries to jog his memory.

‘Oh wait, you mean…?’ Mitchell cackles away. ‘Right. So they dragged you into the shenanigans too. Dan, this is stupid. Santa Claus is not real. I mean, do what you must, and tell Hess and Kane you all convinced me and have a good laugh about it if you want to, but let’s drop the pretense.’

‘Stupid? Do you know what it cost for me to be Santa? I didn’t believe at first either. Then I got stampeded by angry reindeer. I had to run my first sleigh ride with several broken toes which meant I was sidelined from the Boxing Day ODI, and let me tell you, that wasn’t fun. I don’t want that for you, Mitch.’

I don’t want this for me either, thinks Mitchell, and rolls his eyes.

Dan drives him somewhere out of the city, possibly the outskirts of Cambridge. They pull into a driveway with a gate. Mitchell gets out to open it. At the end of a drive way is an enormous shed. More of a warehouse, really.

Dan cuts the engine, but leaves his headlights on, blazing out ahead onto a deer farm. He invites Mitch to get out of the vehicle. ‘This is it. This is where it will all happen tomorrow night. But don’t worry about not being able to find the place. The sleigh and reindeer will arrive to pick you up anyway.’

Mitchell folds his arms across his chest. He is not amused. He wants to be back in the dresser with Ish and Trent and Heinekens. 

Out of the rural quiet, Mitchell makes out a thumpety thump, of many hooves on turf. 

‘I don’t know, Dan,’ says a booming voice, as a reindeer with a tangle of antlers and a massively inflamed snout occupies the light emanating from the truck’s high beam. He’s surrounded by a party, 8 strong. ‘He looks a bit weedy. I doubt he’s got what it takes.’ 

If Mitchell didn’t know any better, he’d say the voice was coming from the animal.

‘He’s stronger than he looks,’ Dan says. ‘You said that about me once, too, Rudolf.’

Oh. Oh no. Mitchell’s lost it now. Dan is talking to a fucking reindeer. 

This is not a good time to be having acid flashbacks. 

‘Does he eat venison?’ says a softer voice. ‘If he eats venison, I’m not working with him.’ One of the deer steps forward, and with her hoof she scrapes at the dirt, a menacing gleam in her eye.

If this is a flashback, it’s to a bad trip that Mitchell doesn’t remember having. And he doesn’t like the look of that doe. ‘Uh, n-no. I don’t eat deer,’ he says, and it’s a lie, but he’s not about to piss these animals off. He likes his toes too much. 

‘He’s lying,’ she tells the herd, and they cluster in closer, sniffing his deceit in the air and getting ready to attack.

‘Anymore! I don’t eat deer anymore, from now on,’ he says quickly, hoping to appease. 

‘Friends, friends!’ Dan cuts in, ‘Let’s not maul Santa before he’s even shown his mettle. Give him a chance, eh. Will you let us pass so I can show him where the sleigh and presents are kept?’

Rudolf, who seems to be the leader, steps aside, and the antlered crowd follow suit. They seem calmed by Dan’s words, and by the bag of carrots he’s ripping open to lay at their hooves.  
Mitchell finds himself making a note of the food. He may need to curry favour with them on Christmas Eve – providing this isn’t all a hallucination (which of course it must be, of course).

‘They like carrots, then?’ he murmurs to Dan as the Donners and the Blitzens get merrily a-chomping.

‘Mm-hmm. And apples. These babies kept my toes safe for almost twenty summers.’

By the light of the four wheel drive, they pass by to the massive warehouse at the back of the herd. It’s the size of two MCGs, and Mitchell is given a set of keys for the numerous padlocks and deadbolts. Dan slides a massive door across, and the movement activates row upon row of fluorescent lights, each shining down on immense piles of red and gold and green and silver gift-wrapped packages, stacked almost to the ceiling. To the left of the entrance, a golden sleigh is parked.

‘Tomorrow evening at nightfall, Rudolf and the gang will turn up with the sleigh. You’re to come here first, and pack the sleigh, but you’ll need to make a few trips as the sleigh only holds so much. Elves will be sent to assist you. Then off you go, to deliver the goods.’

Elves! What the hell was in that Heineken? 

‘Good luck. If anyone can pull this off, Mitch, it’s you.’

He’s too dumbfounded to offer a response. He almost doesn’t trust his voice to work properly, and he would prefer not to let Dan hear him squeak.

The reindeer let them past without a hitch. When they get back to Mitchell’s apartment, Dan grabs a dry cleaning bag from the rear seat, and presses the hanger into his hands. ‘Final thing. Don’t forget to don your gay apparel.’

In bed, Mitchell sleeps, after a fashion, but his mind is something other than quiet.

*

As a dazzling North Island sun slips down the western horizon, and the natural light begins to fade, Mitchell is in his bathroom, brushing his teeth and washing the day’s accumulation of sweat from his face. He has a big day tomorrow of family obligations, eating and drinking and reminiscing and exchanging gifts with his loved ones, so an early night won’t go amiss.

At least, that is how he’d planned things, but as he flicks his head up after one final mouth rinse, all he sees in the mirror is the shower stall behind him. When he looks direct at his hands and limbs, they exist clear enough. So he reaches a hand forward, touches the mirror, but it reflects straight through him. His eyes must be deceiving him: there’s no Mitchell. Of course. He took his glasses off before cleaning his face; they’re folded up next to the soap pump. He puts them on, but still no reflection. Impossible! The only plausible explanation is that he is dreaming again, after having fallen asleep on the couch over an episode of _Game of Thrones_. Just as with the night before, when he dreamed that ridiculous dream of Dan Vettori and talking reindeer. Which he is still telling himself was a dream despite the very tangible dry-cleaning bag of Santa suit hanging on the coathanger inside his bedroom door.

He sighs. He’d spent a good part of the day soaking in skeptic websites to try and rid himself of these daft fantasies. Perhaps the rigours of international cricket are at last burrowing holes in his brain. He might need to get a recommendation for a sports shrink. Or some sleep medication to squash these fevered imaginings. 

He hasn’t the time to figure it all out, because the doorbell rings, and he hasn’t a clue who it could be at this time of night on Christmas eve. Wiping his face, he grabs his bathrobe to make himself semi-presentable and makes for the front door to answer.

Under the motion sensor light is a reindeer. Or more precisely, one, with an enormous ruddy snout, and eight more behind him. 

‘He reeks of cooked flesh again!’ one of them snarls. 

Mitchell chooses to ignore that. Damned hipster vegan reindeer. Instead, he speaks to schnozz-face. ‘Rudolf, right? You can see me?’ 

‘Plain as day, human. But no-one else can. And we’re invisible too. So is the sleigh in your driveway. And you’d better come with us, if you value your limbs. No-one will hear you scream if you refuse.’ 

Mitchell recalls some conventional wisdom, about symptoms of madness. The first is talking to oneself. The second is replying. There’s probably a third, about being attacked by imaginary talking mammals.

‘So I guess you’re here because you want me to be Santa tonight,’ he surmises. 

‘Good one, Einstein,’ remarks another of the deer, and the rest of the animals laugh along with it. 

It’s then that he recalls last night’s dream, which he really isn’t certain was a dream anymore, in which Dan appeased the bloodthirsty herbivores with a bag of carrots. The bowl of summer fruit on his dining room table…

‘Wait there a moment. I have fruit enough for all of you.’

‘I’d better come with you,’ says Rudolf. ‘We can’t have you trying to escape on us, now can we?’

‘Oh, go on, bring them all in. It’s not like any of you are real.’

When all nine of the sleigh-pullers have followed him inside, he leaves his fruit bowl on the lino for them. ‘Just gonna get my gladrags on and then I’ll be ready.’

It takes him a good few minutes to pull on his Santa suit. Doesn’t bother to check his reflection, he knows he looks completely ridiculous. That, and oh yeah, last time he checked he was _invisible_. The bright white beard irritates him most; the synthetic hairs keep finding their way into his maw. What is the point of wearing the suit anyway? He wonders. It’s not as though anyone will see him. 

By the time he returns to the dining room, the reindeer are demolishing the last of his cherries. 

One of the does is warming to him, and allows him to scratch her ear; says her name is Vixen.

‘Please don’t shit in the house,’ he asks in what he thinks is a polite tone. ‘Ouch!’ he cries. Vixen sunk her teeth into his hand.

Not polite enough, apparently. 

*

The night gapes wide before him and feels interminable, each delivery a new groundhog day. Just as soon as he completes his duties in one city, the deer whisk him back to the Cambridge warehouse in the golden sleigh to pack the next load. His muscles ache from overexertion, but he’s not allowed a moment’s rest, and barely has a chance to wipe soot off his face between houses. He is tired, more tired than any test match has ever left him. He recalls fondly his work on the subcontinent, days of running in for thirty, forty overs, only to be smacked around the park by the likes of Pujara and Rahane, to the ear-shattering applause of fervent spectators. That was demoralising, but this, this could make nostalgia of that sweaty dehydrated hell. At least there were drinks breaks and cold towels to wrap around the back of his neck, and ice baths. These sadistic hoofers aren’t even keen on him slaking his thirst, and it’s thirsty work alright. A million households in one night, and all the while doubting his own presence of mind. 

At last, at last he farewells the West Coast towns of the South Island, knowing they will be the last to see the morning sun as they gently slumber under the shadow of the southern alps. Home to the Waikato, home to cobble together some sleep for himself amidst family obligations and a flight to Christchurch for the Boxing Day ODI against Bangladesh.

Christchurch. Buggar. He almost forgot. One more push.

There’s a fresh damp towel in the sleigh, and another flask of sports water. He wants to sob. This is the single worst night of his life, and to think he must repeat it once a year, every year, for as long as he is an international cricketer.

By the time the sleigh pulls up in Cambridge again, and a throng of elves begin to pack the enchanted caboose for the final journey, he’s ready to quit cricket. Find some quiet but stimulating engineering job with a reputable company, and hang up his helmet forever.

He makes the rounds in his overheating suit now black with grime. He’d forgotten how populous Christchurch was, how many houses he must break into. At least there aren’t many chimneys left to contend with, he thinks, as he passes through another doorway in his incorporeal form, stacked arms to eyeballs with gifts to place under yet another identical plastic tree decorated with figures he once was sure were fairytales. 

How he longs for a simple, neat, ordered world that obeys the laws of physics. 

Does that world exist anymore? Did it ever? Perhaps, all along, it was a figment of his imagination, a naïve child’s story he told himself to make him feel safe and in control.

The final stop is a rooftop on the Kashmir hills, one of the few chimney-bearing houses left in Christchurch post 2011 earthquake. Not a bad view here, looking over the flat expanse of streetlamps below. On the eastern horizon, the Pacific Ocean is faint with light. Soon, the sun will rise up and over the sea. 

‘This is it,’ says Rudolf. ‘We leave you here. Strict instructions from NZ Cricket. No point in flying you down from Hamilton tonight when the expense can be spared. You’ll find your cricket gear in the back of the sleigh, with the last of the gifts.’

‘Ok,’ says Mitchell. He’s so exhausted, he can barely speak, let alone unpack the sleigh. The deer are no help: they’re all hooves and antlers. ‘Goodbye,’ he says, with an armload of packages. He has nothing else to say to the animals; they part politely, but in mutual dislike. Now to plunge down the chimney to perform an act of selflessness that Mitchell is determined shall be his last for the foreseeable future. 

Stumbling out of the logburner, he coughs up ash and char. Screw giving, he thinks, scattering red boxes and other awkwardly-shaped items under a baby pine that’s making him feel sneezy and shedding needles all over the carpet. I’ll never give again, if it’s the last thing I do.

He turns to leave through the kitchen door, because he is damned if he’s travelling by chimney ever again. Its then that he notices a full glass of milk, and a small gift-wrapped package tied off with ribbons of red and green resting on a kitchen bench. The tag is clearly marked ‘Santa’. Someone has left a little something for him, and in the misery of his sleep deprivation, he could cry. He could, but he’ll guzzle the milk first, by hook or by crook.

He tears at the wrapping paper, rips at the ribbons, not a thought for tidiness. He’s beyond caring about that stuff. 

It’s a tupperware container full of home-baked chocolate chip cookies.

Now he weeps, and messily stuffs cookies into his mouth, crumbs flying every which way. He feels like the cookie monster, devouring each delicious little circle, so hangry and fatigued that he can hardly be bothered to chew before swallowing. 

And then he collapses on the lino, overwhelmed by soreness and the need to rest.

*

Matt Henry wakes up and flings back his curtains. 

It’s a magnificent morning in the Christchurch suburb of Kashmir and all he can see is a bright blue bubble of sky over the city and the ocean out east. A great day to be alive, like any other, but today is special. Today is Christmas day, and the mere idea of it gives Matty a little extra bounce.

A full night of sound sleep always leaves him with a burning hunger, but more pressingly, his morning glory tells him he needs to pee. In the bathroom, he groans a noisy cavernous yawn, and stretches his limbs out as far as they will allow him. Then he whips his dick out of his boxer briefs, and slowly, gradually trickles out his full bladder. 

He washes his hands in the adjacent basin, opens his bathroom window wide, and splashes some pleasantly cooling water over his face. And now to sate that appetite.

Pancakes, he thinks, wandering down the hallway. Pancakes with bananas and vanilla ice cream and maple syrup. A sprinkle of cinnamon. 

Oh look, what a happy sight! In the living room, his real pine tree, which fills his nostrils with the fresh scent of forest, is watching over a mass of gifts, strewn every which way. Santa came in the night, as Matthew knew he would. A very hungry Santa by the looks of things, too: over in the kitchen, all that remains of the treats he left out are shreds of wrapping paper, a pile of crumbs, an empty tupperware container and a milk stained glass. 

He almost stands on the slumbering Santa’s head when he rounds on the kitchen, and gives a shout of concerned surprise. How on Earth did the jolly gift-giver come to be joed out on his kitchen floor?

‘Urrrrrgggghhhh,’ moans Santa in deep tones, and writhes in his sleep, blackened by soot and looking worse for wear.

Matt goes into problem-solving mode, and totters away on tiptoes to fetch a pillow and a blanket for his unexpected guest. When Santa is looking significantly more cosy, Matt takes his entire fruitbowl and carries it to the couch in his living room, to breakfast on, so as not to wake the dozing man. No sooner than his bottom hits the cushion, he notices there’s not just presents under his tree, but a fully packed Black Caps cricket bag.

Well, this is curious indeed. 

He’s hungrier than he is curious, so before he rifles through the cricket bag to ascertain it’s owner, Matthew devours a ripe nectarine, and sucks the juice off his fingers.

Once opened, the cricket bag unlocks a secret. The very first item Matt pulls out is an ODI shirt, the back of which is emblazoned with a large ‘74’, and the name ‘Santner’.

‘Help me! Everything hurts!’ comes a distraught voice from the next room, and although it doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, a piece of the puzzle falls into place. That voice matches the cricket shirt. And the man clearly needs some assistance. 

Matt answers the distress call in person. ‘Mitchell? Is that you? Here, let me help you,’ and he crouches down to give his ailing team-mate a supportive shoulder, and helps the stiff, creaky man to his feet. ‘Let’s get you to the couch, you can lie down there.’

So many questions. Why and how did Matty’s team-mate come to be lying on his floor in a Santa suit?

He has to move the fruit bowl out of the way to the coffee table, and as he does so, Mitchell emits a grunt from under his sooty beardwig, and gestures at the bowl. ‘Banana!’ Matt holds one out to him, and it is snatched out of his fingers.

‘How about I run you a bath, mate? It might help with the aches and pains,’ he suggests, but Santa Mitch shakes his head vigourously. ‘No!’ he groans. ‘Don’t leave me,’ and then the poor bedraggled man’s shoulders begin to heave, and he sobs into his grubby hands. 

‘I’ve had the worst night of my life,’ he blubbers.

Matt’s a kind man, with a huge heart, and the tears hit him right in the chest. It’s more than a touch alarming, to bear witness to a wailing Mitch. The guy isn’t exactly an open book, so whatever has caused this outpouring of emotion has got to be big, serious. 

He settles on the sofa next to him, and, putting a warm toned arm around his neck, tugs the man towards his naked torso and cradles him gently. ‘There there,’ he says softly, rubbing Mitchell’s back. ‘You’re safe now. Just relax, and I’ll look after you, and when you’re ready you can tell me what happened.’

On impulse, he presses tender lips against Mitchell’s santa hat.


End file.
